The wooden cabin in the hills above Manali creaked softly under the weight of fresh snow, its pine beams glowing warm against the white storm outside. Anand Deverakonda stood by the window, watching thick flakes drift past the glass, but his mind was nowhere near the weather. Vijay had suggested this private getaway weeks ago—a quiet place to rehearse lines for their next project, just the two of them, no crew, no family. Anand had agreed too quickly, heart hammering even then. He had been carrying this hunger since the first time he watched Arjun Reddy, since the raw, unhinged energy Vijay poured onto screen had slipped under his skin and refused to leave. Every night since, Anand had stolen moments: pressing his face into Vijay’s discarded shirts in hotel rooms, inhaling the mix of sweat, cologne, and something purely him; standing in steaming bathrooms with the door locked, hand working furiously while he pictured those broad shoulders, that sharp jaw, the way Vijay’s voice dropped when he was angry or aroused. It was shameful, secret, endless. Now here they were, snowed in, the cabin lit only by a single lamp and the fire, and Anand could barely breathe.

Vijay moved around the small living area, setting down the script pages on the table, his black sweater stretched tight across his chest. “Lines again?” he asked, voice casual, but his eyes flicked to Anand and lingered half a second too long. Anand nodded, throat dry. They had been circling each other all day—brushing shoulders while reaching for the same mug, Vijay’s hand steadying Anand’s lower back when he slipped on the icy porch steps. Each touch burned. Anand’s mind raced with the same loop: Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t imagine what his skin tastes like. Don’t let him see how hard you are just from the smell of him in this room.

They started rehearsing in the dim light. Vijay took the lead, voice low and commanding as he delivered his lines, stepping close to demonstrate blocking. Anand mirrored him, but his concentration shattered when Vijay’s arm brushed his again, deliberate this time, the heat of skin through fabric. “You’re distracted,” Vijay murmured, close enough that Anand felt the words against his ear. “What’s going on in that head?” Anand forced a laugh, stepping back, but the air between them crackled. Vijay’s gaze dropped to Anand’s lips, then lower, and Anand’s pulse thundered. He knew he should stop, should hide the way his body reacted, but the years of secret longing pressed against his ribs like the snow against the windows.

Later, after dinner and more wine than usual, Vijay went to shower. Anand waited until the water ran, then slipped into the bedroom. Vijay’s open duffel sat on the bed. His fingers trembled as he lifted a worn grey T-shirt, bringing it to his face. The scent hit him hard—musk, soap, the faint trace of Vijay’s cologne. He pressed it to his nose, eyes closing, a soft sound escaping his throat. He didn’t hear the water stop. Didn’t notice the door open until Vijay’s voice cut through the dark.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Anand froze, shirt still clutched to his face. The room went silent except for the crackle of the fireplace and the storm outside. Vijay stood in the doorway, towel low on his hips, water beading on his chest, staring. Anand’s heart slammed against his ribs. He dropped the shirt like it burned him. “Vijay… I—” No words came. The silence stretched, thick and electric. Vijay’s expression shifted from shock to something darker, unreadable. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch sounded final.

They stared at each other. Anand’s mind screamed run, hide, apologize, but his body stayed rooted. Vijay’s gaze traveled down Anand’s frame, noticing the obvious bulge in his sweats, the flush on his neck. The tension thickened until Anand could taste it—salt, want, fear, lust. Vijay moved first, slow, deliberate, until they stood inches apart. “How long?” he asked, voice rough. Anand swallowed. “Since Arjun Reddy. Every fucking day.” The confession hung between them. Vijay’s breath hitched. His hand lifted, hovered, then brushed Anand’s jaw, thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. The touch lingered, electric. Anand leaned into it without meaning to. Vijay’s other hand settled on his waist, pulling him fractionally closer. Their bodies brushed—hard chest against hard chest, the towel between them doing nothing to hide Vijay’s growing interest. “You’ve been thinking about this,” Vijay whispered, voice turning husky with amusement and heat. “Sniffing my clothes like a desperate little slut.” The word landed filthy and perfect. Anand’s cock twitched visibly. Vijay smiled, slow and predatory, pressing closer until Anand felt the thick line of him through the towel. “Tell me what you imagined.”

The silence broke into low, teasing murmurs. Vijay’s fingers trailed down Anand’s spine, slipping under his shirt to trace bare skin. “Did you jerk off thinking about my cock in your mouth? About bending you over this bed?” Anand nodded, breath stuttering, hips shifting forward on instinct. Vijay laughed softly, the sound dark and pleased, and rolled his hips once—slow, deliberate friction that made them both groan. Hands roamed, shirts pushed up, skin meeting skin in heated slides. Vijay’s mouth hovered at Anand’s neck, not kissing yet, just breathing, teasing. “Say it. Say you want your brother’s dick.” The taboo word made Anand shudder, cock leaking against his sweats. “I want it,” he gasped. “Want you to fuck me like you hate me.” Vijay’s eyes flashed. The towel dropped.

Vijay shoved Anand onto the bed, climbing over him, bodies aligning in one grinding press. “Fucking filthy,” Vijay growled, yanking Anand’s sweats down. His hand wrapped around both their cocks, stroking slow and tight, pre-cum slicking the way. “Look at this greedy hole already twitching for me.” He spat into his palm, fingers circling Anand’s entrance, pressing one thick digit inside without warning. Anand cried out, hips bucking. “Yeah, take it. You’ve been dreaming of this cock splitting you open.” Vijay added a second finger, scissoring, curling against that spot that made Anand see white. “Such a nasty little cockslut for your own blood.” He withdrew, lined up, and pushed in with one long, relentless thrust. Anand’s back arched, a broken moan tearing free as Vijay bottomed out, balls deep, stretching him wide. “Tight as fuck,” Vijay grunted, hips snapping forward. “Gonna wreck this hole.” He set a punishing rhythm, skin slapping, sweat-slick bodies sliding, the bed creaking under them. Anand clawed at Vijay’s back, begging, “Harder, fuck me harder, fill me up.” Vijay obliged, pounding deeper, one hand pinning Anand’s wrists, the other stroking his leaking cock. “Gonna come inside you, mark you so you smell like me all week.” The filthy words pushed Anand over first—he came with a shout, ropes painting his stomach and Vijay’s hand. Vijay followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, pulsing hot and deep, growling curses against Anand’s neck. They stayed locked together, breathing ragged, snow still falling outside, the fire casting long shadows over tangled limbs.